Granny and the Professor
by MinervaDeannaBond
Summary: What happens when the Dowager Countess of Grantham and the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts meet due to an accident in time? Read along and find out as Lady Violet Crawley and Professor Minerva McGonagall go at it over magic, Muggles, and everything in between! Set during OOTP and mid-Season 3 of Downton Abbey.
1. The Lions, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

I'm amazed nobody's thought of this already, but that's a blessing for me, because I'm glad I'm the one who gets to do it! Everybody knows that Maggie Smith plays Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham on _Downton Abbey, _but she was also Professor Minerva McGonagall from _Harry Potter. _For a while now, I've wondered what it would be like if Lady Violet and McGonagall ever met, so... badda bing, badda boom! Worlds collide and two strong-willed women go head-to-head over magic, clothes, and everything in between!

* * *

"Professor! Professor McGonagall, come quickly!"

Professor Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, looked up from the essay she was grading and nearly upset her ink as Hermione Granger grabbed her by the hand and yanked her up out of her chair. "Miss Granger, really! What is the meaning of this?"

Hermione never stopped for an instant, heading for the door of the Transfiguration classroom and dragging Minerva along with her. "Fred and George – Peeves – fifth floor – water – disaster…"

"Miss Granger, do calm down and try to make some sense! And you can let go of my wrist and stop pulling me along. I'm not a kneazle on a lead."

As though realizing the rather childish thing she was doing for the first time, Hermione flushed slightly and dropped Minerva's hand, slowing her pace to a brisk stride. "I'm sorry, Professor," she apologized as Minerva fell into an easier step with her. "I guess I was in a panic because of the mess I saw upstairs."

"And what exactly was the mess you saw upstairs?" Minerva asked warily, wondering what on earth the irrepressible Weasley twins had gotten themselves into this time.

Hermione winced. "Actually, _mess _is putting it lightly. It's more like a shambles. Fred and George were in one of the empty classrooms on the fifth floor testing out their latest novelty: Weasleys' Wonderfully Wet and Wicked Water Balloons, and they invited Harry, Ron, and me along to watch. All of a sudden, Peeves burst through the wall and scared the living daylights out of all of us, and of course, Fred seized the opportunity to throw a balloon at Peeves and now everybody apart from me is in an all-out water war in the classroom."

Minerva narrowed her eyes at her brightest student. "Miss Granger, I realize that engaging in any sort of shenanigan that Fred and George Weasley concoct means breaking school rules three ways to Sunday, but I would hardly call a simple water balloon battle cause for a panic attack."

"You haven't seen a water war with Fred and George's balloons," Hermione returned, shaking her head. "A normal water balloon can only hold enough water to soak one person when it explodes, but when Fred and George's balloons explode, they release a whole bloody ocean!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Minerva snapped, closing her eyes in frustration. "Come on, Miss Granger. Let's get up there and put a stop to this fiasco before we have to float the students out two by two."

* * *

When Minerva and Hermione arrived at the fifth-floor classroom, the door was shut tight and muffled sounds – curse words, monstrous splashes, and spells being cast – were filtering through to the two women outside. "Well, Miss Granger, it seems that spells have been added to the mix."

Hermione clamped a hand to her forehead. "This is worse than when I left them. They're going to kill each other by magic or drown themselves, either one."

"Not if I can help it. If this is a war, we need to get this lot to call a cease-fire, especially before Major Stupidity and General Nonsense find out."

A bark of laughter burst from Hermione's mouth. "Professor, are you talking about Mr. Filch and Professor Umbridge?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Yes, I am. Ever since Dolores Umbridge became _High Inquisitor_ –" massive eye-rolling here – "She has turned Hogwarts into a dictatorship, with Argus Filch as her loyal lap dog and the whole of Slytherin House as her standing army. The last thing I need is to be discovered at the scene of the crime and be reprimanded for not keeping my students under control. Not to mention Gryffindor doesn't need to go into negative values in regard to house points." She stood back and drew her wand out of her robes. "_Impervius!" _she said twice, aiming her wand first at Hermione and then at herself. "Now that we're both waterproof, stand back. When I open the door, water's going to come rushing out." Taking aim at the door, Minerva sent a jet of sparks raining on the handle and the door burst open, bringing a lot more than rain surging forth into the corridor. Wave upon wave of water washed over Minerva and Hermione like Noah's flood, but the two of them remained mercifully dry, thanks to Minerva's waterproofing charm beforehand. Once the water had abated, Minerva raised her wand again and cried "_Evanesco!_"

The floodwaters vanished, leaving the corridor dry as a bone. Keeping her wand raised and Hermione following her example, Minerva stormed into the classroom to find that the water war was now over and a full-blown wizard's duel was taking place – Harry Potter and the Weasleys versus Peeves the Poltergeist. Four against one seemed to be good odds for a victory, but Minerva knew from experience that Peeves could easily torment four students at once and come back for seconds and thirds in a heartbeat. Right now, Peeves had situated himself on the left side of the room, where chairs and desks were stacked up against the wall. Two by two, the poltergeist was seizing a chair and a desk in each hand and hurling them at the makeshift bunker on the opposite side of the room, where the boys were sending spells at the flying projectiles as fast as Peeves could throw them.

"_Impedimenta!_" Harry Potter's voice rang out; the chair froze in midair.

"_Confringo!_" Ron Weasley shouted, causing the next incoming desk to explode and send debris raining down in the middle of the room.

"_Ebullio Verto!_"

Peeves suddenly froze mid-throw and all four heads popped up out of the bunker at the crack of Minerva's voice through the room. The last desk and chair thrown suddenly turned into a cloud of bubbles, which rained down upon every party present with no damage at all. For a good minute, nobody moved or made a sound – the sight of Minerva McGonagall with her wand drawn and fury etched into her face was enough to make a fwooper take a vow of silence.

Minerva pointed her wand at the four boys, who were still gazing at her in either awe or fright; she couldn't tell which and really didn't care at the present time. "Front and center, you lot, NOW." As they scrambled to acquiesce, Minerva then turned her wand on the poltergeist, holding on to a chair and desk as if his life depended on it. "Drop them, Peeves!"

A wicked grin spread across Peeves's face. "As you wish!" he cackled, letting the desk and chair fall to the floor with a crash; the two splintered into piles of wood the instant they hit the stone floor.

"I didn't mean throw them to the ground and break them, you addlepated poltergeist!"

"Your fault," Peeves taunted. "Should've elaborated, Professor McGone-Up-Wall."

Minerva seethed, her wand still raised. "Call me another one, Peeves. I've lost my patience and I'm dangerously close to losing my temper, so don't push me!"

Peeves did a somersault and laughed with malicious delight. "Lost your patience, eh? Whatever you do, don't look for it in that wardrobe over there!" he said, pointing at a huge old mahogany wardrobe in the back corner of the room.

All eyes shot to the wardrobe; five sets of eyes refocused on Minerva and Peeves, wondering what in Merlin's name was going to happen next. "What have you done; hidden another deluge of water balloons in that wardrobe?" Minerva fired at the poltergeist.

"Shan't tell you, I shan't. You'll have to go look for yourself, Professor McGormless-Gal."

Throwing her filthiest look at Peeves, Minerva crossed the room to the wardrobe with her wand held in front of her. Once she stopped in front of it, she sent another jet of sparks showering upon the doorknob and the door swung open… and in that instant, all hell broke loose.

The shouts came simultaneously. The voices of her five students all cried "Watch out, Professor!" just as something swooped up behind her and Peeves crowed "Gotcha, Professor McGonna-Fall!" The next thing Minerva knew, that pandemonic poltergeist had shoved her into the wardrobe and slammed the door behind her – but she didn't land face-first in a pile of coats. Some kind of enchantment had been placed upon the wardrobe, for Minerva suddenly felt her stomach fly up into her throat as she fell, down, down, endlessly…

_Flump! _

At long last, Minerva landed in the expected mass of coats, hats, _laces, satins, and silks? _Raising her wand as best as she could in the confined space, she murmured "_Lumos_" and squinted her eyes as the wardrobe was flooded in light.

Clearly, she was no longer in the wardrobe at Hogwarts, which had contained a few spare robes and traveling cloaks. The garments she now beheld were Muggle clothes, but Muggle clothes from the Edwardian era – late 1910's or early 1920's, from the looks of them. High-collared, long-skirted silk and satin gowns with rich lace and beaded trim, coats made of the finest wool, and more hats and high-button shoes than one could shake their wand at. _Merlin's pants, where am I? More to the point, _when _am I? If I ever get back to Hogwarts, I'm going to chuck Peeves out myself, Filch be hanged. But first, I need to find out where I am._

After muttering "_Nox_" to snuff her wand's light, Minerva pushed open the wardrobe door and stepped out into an elegant bedroom, all lavender walls and soft green and white accents, giving the place the feel of an English cottage garden – albeit one that belonged to royalty. It was nice, but a little too fussy for her; she preferred the warmth and simplicity of her study at Hogwarts. _Obviously, I'm in someone's house. Now comes the task of getting out unseen and finding a witch or wizard who can help me get back to Hogwarts – and if I'm correct, my own time. _Slipping her wand back inside her robes, Minerva was about to make the short walk across the room to the door when it suddenly opened, revealing a young woman in servant's garb whose eyes widened upon catching sight of Minerva._ Marvelous. How am I going to get out of this one? _Thinking on her feet, Minerva was about to tell the maid not to be alarmed when the girl's expression changed from surprise to puzzlement and she addressed Minerva without any hint of fear – but what she said nearly knocked Minerva off her feet.

"Your Ladyship? I thought you were going up to the big house to visit His Lordship. And what are you wearing? Is that some new fashion?"

Taken aback, Minerva stared at the maid as though she had never seen anything like her. "What did you just call me?"

The maid blinked and shrank a little, like a dog about to be beaten for disobedience. "Your Ladyship," she repeated, her big brown eyes wide. "That's what you like us to call you, unless you'd prefer Milady or Lady Grantham."

"Lady Grantham? Who is Lady Grantham?"

"You are," the maid replied, now thoroughly confused; the feeling was mutual on Minerva's part. "Did you hit your head? Can't you remember who you are?"

Despite the whirl of confusion surrounding her, Minerva decided to play along with the girl to try and glean some answers. "No, I can't. Who am I?"

The maid stared at her, incredulous. "Why, you're Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, that's who!"


	2. Witchy Woman

Last time, Minerva found herself caught in a case of mistaken identity. Now, we're up at Downton Abbey itself, where Lady Violet Crawley is raging about becoming the very thing that her unknown alter ego is: a witch.

* * *

"She wants me to be a _what_?"

"A witch. She wants you to be the evil witch in the play."

"The _nerve _of her! Do I look like a witch to you?"

Lady Edith Crawley refrained from comment as she watched her grandmother flounce up and down the library with every ounce of wounded dignity she could muster. She had learned a long time ago that when Granny was in a temper, it was best just to keep one's mouth closed and stand back. It was a rare occasion when the aforementioned tempers happened, but now – ironically, a week before the servants' ball – was one of those times.

Normally, the servants' ball was a special occasion, filled with joy, laughter, and dancing, and the festivities this year promised to be even better, thanks to the efforts of Cousin Isobel. She had proposed a short stage play to be acted out for the servants' entertainment halfway through the evening, and everyone had been enormously excited when they learned that the play was to be _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. _The family had laughed, but jumped to the task when Isobel informed them that _they,_ the Crawleys, would be the actors and actresses; the stars of the show. Of course, everyone clamored for the lead roles – Edith herself and her sister Mary had nearly come to blows over which one of them would play Snow White. Mary's argument was that Edith did not possess the dark, shining hair and flawless white skin of Snow White (all implying that she did herself), while Edith fired back that she ought to be worried that the poisoned apple might kill the future heir of Downton (after all, Mary was pregnant with her and husband Matthew's first child).

That argument had effectively been settled by their mother, Cora, who stepped in and declared that _she _would play Snow White, no _ifs, ands, _or _buts_ about it. With the girls promptly put in their places and Cora now in the lead role, the obvious choice for the Prince was Lord Robert Crawley, handpicked by Cora ("Of course Mama would choose her own Prince," Mary chuckled) and smilingly approved by Isobel.

Then there was the problem of assembling the Seven Dwarfs. Clearly, nobody at Downton was small enough to be considered a dwarf, but Isobel, ever optimistic, had cheerfully exclaimed that height didn't matter; only the parts did. His confidence boosted by Isobel's own, Matthew had been the first to volunteer his services as a dwarf. Tom Branson, the girls' brother-in-law, spoke up next, stating that he'd do it "for Sybbie – and because her mother would have loved it so." It didn't take long after that for Mary and Edith to speak up, followed by their cousin Rose, visiting from Duneagle in Scotland, Isobel herself, and their aunt Rosamund, who declared that she might as well make a fool out of herself along with the rest of them.

But the real problem still remained – the last role and, more to the point, who was going to play it. The only role left was the most crucial one, aside from Snow White: the wicked Queen, otherwise known as the Witch. She believed herself to be the fairest in the land, yet her jealousy of Snow White's beauty made her as ugly on the outside as she was on the inside. At the time, all of the parts were taken and the Crawleys were stumped as to who would play the Queen… until, in a strong burst of gall (or insanity, depending on one's point of view), Isobel boldly suggested, "What about Cousin Violet? She's certainly in the position to ask who the fairest one of all is." Even Robert had smiled at that remark, which only solidified the decision. All that remained was to deliver the news – but at the moment, Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, was all but ready to shoot the messenger, even if it happened to be her own granddaughter.

"Isobel and her wretched cheek! Me, a _witch_!"

"Granny, calm down!" Edith held up her hands, trying to placate her fuming grandmother, despite the fact that she knew it was futile. "You're forgetting that she's not a witch at first; she's a queen – the most beautiful in the land until Snow White's beauty outshines hers."

"That's a laugh as well," Violet snapped, turning on her heel and striding the opposite length of the library. "A beautiful queen was _not _what Isobel had in mind when she suggested me. All she was thinking of was an evil, ugly old crone, and don't you dare deny it. I can accept that I'm past my prime, but I'm not ugly, Edith! Am I?"

Beneath the seemingly vain words, Edith could hear the insecurity in Violet's voice, and it nearly broke her heart. "Oh, Granny…" Rising from the sofa near the fireplace, Edith crossed the room to Violet and put her arms around her grandmother's shoulders, holding her close. "Of course not. Just because you're not twenty anymore doesn't mean you're not still beautiful. Look at Grandmama. She looks wonderful for her age, and what's more, she knows it."

Violet pulled away with a cynical expression. "Do be serious, Edith. As much as alcohol as that woman imbibes, she's probably preserved herself for the next thirty years."

"Granny, I _am _serious. If Grandmama were here and Cousin Isobel had asked her to play the Queen, what would you have done?"

"Laughed at her, just as she would be laughing at me at this moment," Violet replied without as much as a thought. "Of course, she never passes up an opportunity to be the center of attention."

Had Edith been a braver soul, she would have taken a leaf out of her grandmama Martha Levinson's book and said something along the lines of _pot _and _kettle_. But at the moment, her British sensibilities were overriding her American fire, so she bit her tongue and simply smiled at her paternal grandmother. "That's exactly the point. Grandmama would leap at the chance to play any part, even if it was one of the dwarfs. She knows how to laugh at herself and she doesn't give a fig what anyone thinks about her."

Violet sniffed. "She's American. Americans wouldn't understand the meaning of the word _dignity _if it wrapped itself in a Union Jack and beat them about the head."

Now it was Edith's turn to pull back in disbelief. "Now, that's not entirely true. What about Mama? She's American and she has more dignity in her thumb than most women of our class have in their whole bodies."

"Well, that's only because she's lived here for so long," Violet said, by way of an explanation. "Being married to your father and then becoming the Countess of Grantham has taught her to adopt the ways of the English – a change for the better, if you ask me."

Edith was silent for a moment. Unlike Mary, who thought of herself as fully English, Edith was secretly glad she was half American. She and her sisters had been brought up like proper English ladies, but deep down, Edith knew that her determination, her thirst for freedom, and her zeal to welcome new things and changes with open arms were all results of the hot American blood that flowed through her veins – the blood that had been passed down to her from Cora and from Grandmama Martha. And whether or not Violet cared to admit it, not even years of living in Britain and of being the Countess of Grantham had quenched Cora's American fire, which burned bright in her resilience, her pluck, and her compassionate spirit. But now was no time to argue with Violet about it. "Oh, Granny, why not just grin and bear it? It's only for one night, and think how much Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and the others will love it."

"Please, dear. Some of the servants undoubtedly think I'm a witch already; there's no point in confirming it for them."

As Violet started out of the library and in the direction of the main lounge, Edith called after her, "Granny, you have to do it! We can't put on the play without you!"

Violet stopped in her tracks and swiveled on the spot to face Edith once more. "Edith, I am forced to play many parts every day: mother, grandmother, family matriarch, Dowager Countess, even matchmaker on the rarest of occasions. But as long as I have breath in my body, I will not, _will not _play a witch!" And with that Parthian shaft, she stormed out of the room, leaving Edith to throw up her hands in frustration.


	3. Dowitcher Countess?

I do apologize for the delay - I hope this was worth the wait! Last time, we left Violet in a bit of a snit with Edith despairing of what to do with her. Now, we're back at the Dower House, where Minerva has just been caught by one of the maids and mistaken for Violet. What on Earth is a self-respecting, independent witch to do? Read on and find out!

* * *

_Dowager Countess? _Minerva could hardly believe her ears. The term was not alien to her; she knew that it was a rank in the Muggle aristocracy – the widow of a count or earl whose son was now heir to the family fortune and title. Minerva understood the title perfectly; what she didn't understand was why in Merlin's name this young woman was addressing her as the Dowager Countess of Grantham. And what was this woman's name? "What did you say my name was?"

The poor maid was clearly bewildered, and Minerva could sympathize. "You really don't know who you are, do you, milady?"

_I am not your lady, nor this Dowager Countess you keep referring to. I know exactly who I am. I am Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. I know that for a fact, just as sure as I know that I am not crazy! But if I hope to ever get some answers so I can get out of here, I need to play along – and if it means playing stupid, so be it. _"No, I don't know who I am. And who are you?"

Out of habit or respect, either one, the maid curtsied, with an incline of her head. "Amelia Smithers, your lady's maid. I see to Your Ladyship's needs, bring you breakfast, dress you each day, things like that. And Julia and Dorothy are the maids who come in to make your bed and tidy your room."

Maids who dressed you, brought you breakfast, and made your bed? Minerva knew it was all part of the life of a highborn Muggle woman, yet the witch in her scoffed at such excess; such needlessness. Granted, at Hogwarts, the house-elves would appear to make the beds, clean house, and prepare dinner, but daily needs, including dressing? Pulling on a set of robes never killed anyone... but then, women put themselves through torture in this time period, as corsets were still a part of the fashion. No, give Minerva a set of loose, flowing robes any day; it made much more sense to be comfortable than fashionable. As for her hair, all Minerva had to do was coil it into a bun with one flick of her wand: two seconds instead of two hours. How Muggles survived without magic, especially in this time, was beyond her, but Minerva knew that using her powers here and now could be risky, unless exercised with great care. _Play along, Minerva, _she told herself. _Ask a few more questions and perhaps you'll learn exactly who the Dowager Countess is. _"I have maids. And my name is..."

"Violet, milady," Smithers supplied. "Lady Violet Alexandra Crawley."

"That's a very pretty name." _I don't like it half as well as Minerva Catriona McGonagall, but it'll do for now. _

"It's lovely, Your Ladyship."

_Stop calling me that. _"Where am I?"

"This is your house, the Dower House at Downton."

"Downton?"

"Yes, milady, the village and estate of Downton, all part of the Earldom of Grantham."

Earldom of Grantham; now they were getting somewhere. If there was an existing earldom and Minerva's supposed doppelganger was the Dowager Countess, then the woman most likely had a son who was the current earl. "Who is the Earl of Grantham?"

Smithers' eyes grew wider than Galleons at this question. "My stars, Your Ladyship; you must have hit your head badly if you can't remember your own son!"

"I have a son?" _Sweet Merlin, I sound like an absolute idiot, and what's worse, I sound the part._

Smithers raised a hand to her forehead. "Oh, dear." She strode forward and took Minerva's hand, leading her over to the bed. "Come along, my lady. I think you ought to sit down."

_You think? _Nevertheless, Minerva allowed herself to be guided onto the bed, noting that Smithers remained standing. Minerva was on the verge of patting the bed next to herself, in invitation for the maid to sit with her, but stilled her hand. Servants didn't sit in the presence of their lord or lady, and an invitation to sit with the supposed Dowager Countess of Grantham would no doubt give the poor girl a coronary. Rather, Minerva settled for gazing expectantly at her, awaiting a full description of the lady's family. After a moment of collecting herself, Smithers took a deep breath and began.

"You have two children, Your Ladyship: Lady Rosamund Painswick of London and Lord Robert Crawley, His Lordship the Earl of Grantham. He lives up at the Great House, Downton Abbey, with Her Ladyship Cora, the Countess of Grantham, and their children – your granddaughers, milady."

"Granddaughters," Minerva repeated, absorbing this new piece of information. "How many?"

Smithers opened her mouth and closed it again, hesitating and looking truly uncomfortable. "Two, Your Ladyship. Lady Mary, who is married to Mr. Matthew Crawley, His Lordship's cousin and heir, and Lady Edith. And then there was... oh, I don't even know how to tell you this, what with your condition and all... it'll break your heart all over again."

"Smithers." The girl raised amazed brown eyes back up to Minerva's face, apparently startled by the gentle tone that had addressed her. With this reaction and the way the maid shrank earlier, Minerva put two and two together to form an early idea of what Lady Violet Crawley was really like. _I'm stern myself, but this woman must make me look like a marshmallow. _"It's perfectly all right. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Smithers' shoulders sagged in relief. "As you wish, Your Ladyship. You had a third granddaughter, Lady Sybil. She was married to Mr. Tom Branson, who was His Lordship's chauffeur, and she gave birth to a little girl just before..." Smithers paused, casting a wary eye upon Minerva before continuing. "Before she died. Just last year. I'm so sorry, milady."

Minerva felt like her head was reeling. She – no, the Dowager Countess – had two children, one of whom was the earl, and three granddaughters, one of whom was dead. All important to know, but how long could Minerva keep this charade up? Surely not while the real Lady Violet was still out there, possibly even returning to the house at this very moment. No, she needed to get out and about – but first, something had to be taken care of, and a little acting required.

"What... what am I wearing?" Minerva asked after feigning a confused look at herself.

For the first time, Smithers smiled. "I was wondering the same thing, milady. Please don't take offense, but that outfit looks almost like something a witch would wear."

Minerva wanted nothing more than to laugh at that one, but composed herself and said honestly, "No offense taken. What do you think I should wear?"

Smithers looked positively delighted to be asked for her opinion on anything. "Well, Your Ladyship," she began, crossing the room to the wardrobe and throwing the doors open, "If I were you... I'd love to wear this gown." She held up a frock of emerald silk trimmed in jet beading; a stunning dress, and even in Minerva's favorite color.

"It's lovely," Minerva admitted, unable to tear her eyes away from the luscious-looking green silk.

"Isn't it beautiful? A present from His Lordship and Her Ladyship, it was, for your birthday. And if you don't mind my saying so, this shade of green would pay Your Ladyship's eyes a complement."

That sealed the deal. "I'll wear it."

"Wonderful! Let's get you ready." Smithers draped the gown over the bed and began to ease Minerva's outer robe off her shoulders.

"No, don't," Minerva countered, edging the maid's hands away and readjusting her robes. "I can dress myself, thank you."

Smithers' eyes all but popped out of her head and her mouth parted in an "O" of astonishment. It was no surprise; Minerva knew exactly what she had just done: broken one of the most rigid customs of the Edwardian era. A lady never dressed herself, but that was one aspect Minerva was willing to throw out the window. Nobody was going to see her naked, and as long as she was fully capable of dressing herself, she was going to be self-sufficient. Of course, creating the illusion of a proper Edwardian lady would require a little magical assistance, all the more reason to dress alone.

"But – Your Ladyship – you never – your memory isn't –"

Minerva held up a hand to halt the girl's stammering. "Just because I can't remember who I am doesn't mean I'm helpless. I'll manage."

"Are you certain, milady? Your stays may give you some trouble."

Stays? Dear Lord, she was talking about a corset. "I'll be fine," she said, firmly but gently. "Go on, dear."

Given the girl's surprised smile, Minerva had just created another breach of the Dowager Countess's character by calling her _dear, _but what did it matter? Most likely Smithers would chalk it up to "Her Ladyship's" apparent loss of memory, and out-of-character behavior was not uncommon among amnesiacs. Minerva's assumption proved correct as Smithers bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the room with a "Yes, milady," closing the door behind her.

Alone at last, Minerva was finally free to draw her wand. She stared at the dress for a minute or two, forming an idea of the spell she wanted to cast. Wearing the gown itself would be no problem, but no way was she going to magic herself into a corset. The illusion could easily be created magically. Also, swapping her witch's robes for the dress was out of the question – if the real Lady Violet returned to find these clothes in place of one of her dresses, all hell would break loose, for the family here and for the wizarding world. No, this subterfuge required a little magic. After all, Minerva was not the professor of Transfiguration for nothing.

Pointing her wand at herself, Minerva ran its tip along the outside of her robes, murmuring a choice spell the whole while. When she finished, her robes had been transformed into a carbon copy of the gown, emerald silk wrapping her skin in cooling fingers and the skirt swishing softly about her legs as she moved. Crossing to the vanity mirror nearby, she appraised her reflection. The result wasn't terrible – the gown _was _beautiful, and even Minerva had to admit that Smithers had been right: the green silk intensified the blue of her eyes. But something was still missing...

Aware of the wand she still clutched, Minerva looked down at both of her hands. Long, slender fingers, ungloved... _that's it! Gloves! _No self-respecting lady of the time went without gloves; Minerva remembered her grandmother's hands always hidden in a pair. Come to think of it, jewelry and a hat probably wouldn't be a bad idea either – even Minerva herself never went out without her pointed black hat and a brooch pinned to the collar or breast of her robes. But where to find them?

Tucking the real gown safely back among the others in the wardrobe, well out of sight, and slipping her wand into the sleeve of the dress she wore, Minerva strode over to the bell she had seen on the wall earlier and rang it. A few minutes later, Smithers reappeared, dipping a curtsy to Minerva. "You rang, milady?"

_Time to play the amnesiac again. _"I need something else. Do you know what I need?"

Smithers smiled. "Of course, Your Ladyship. You need gloves and jewels before you take your leave." She was on her way over to the wardrobe when she stopped mid-stride to look Minerva up and down. "You look lovely, milady. Forgive me for asking, but how did you manage to put it on so easily?"

Minerva's mouth quirked. "I have my ways."

She must have said something that the real Lady Violet would say, for Smithers chuckled and said, "You do indeed, milady." The maid then slid open a drawer in the wardrobe and took out a pair of filmy black gloves. "Will these do?"

"They'll do nicely." Minerva held out her hands to receive the gloves and slipped them over her fingers, tucking the bottoms underneath the sleeves of her gown. "And a hat?"

"Actually, milady, since it's so close to dinnertime, and you're wearing that particular gown..." Smithers closed the wardrobe and made her way over to what Minerva assumed was the jewelry box. "Perhaps you'd like to wear this." She carefully lifted a diamond-and-emerald tiara out of the box, turning it this way and that so it caught the light of the setting sun and threw shards of rainbow around the room.

Minerva fought the urge to scoff. Beautiful though it was, a tiara was not on her fashion list – that was more like something Dolores Umbridge would wear. The woman undoubtedly thought of herself as queen of Hogwarts already; all that was missing was a gaudy pink tiara exploding with glitter and feathers. But, as Muggle actors said, the show must go on, so Minerva put on a smile and said, "Perfect." She sat still while Smithers laid the tiara in her hair, and then allowed a set of emerald earrings to be hung from her ears and a matching necklace draped around her neck. The ensemble complete, Minerva rose from the vanity chair and was about to open the door when Smithers called out to her.

"Your Ladyship, wait! Don't forget this!"

Minerva swiveled on her feet and nearly fell through the floor when she was what Smithers was extending to her. _A walking stick? Seriously? If I'm anywhere near this woman's age, I think I have better mobility than she does! What next, a scepter and ermine robe? I'm not playing a Dowager Countess; I'm playing a bloody queen! _Gritting her teeth, Minerva took the stick in hand and thanked Smithers, who bobbed in return.

"Will you be heading back up to the Great House to dine with Lord and Lady Grantham? Or will you be taking your supper here, milady?"

Minerva pondered the options. On one hand, she wanted to get out and find some answers in order to return home. On the other hand, staying here could mean trouble. Either way, she was going to run into the real Lady Violet sooner or later, and all things considered, her safest option was to venture forth. Nothing ever got accomplished by sitting on one's bum. "Well, if I see my family, it might help me remember them, won't it?"

Smithers' eyes widened in approval. "That's very true, Your Ladyship. I'll ask Blamire to bring the car 'round, and to explain how you lost your memory. How... how _did _you lose your memory, anyway? Do you remember?"

Minerva pretended to rack her brain. "Well... the last thing I remember was climbing out of the wardrobe. I guess I fell in somehow," she said, smiling inside at the truth she had just told.

"That must have been some fall, milady."

_You have no idea, _Minerva thought as she took her leave of the Dower House for the Great House – Downton Abbey.


	4. Joust Between Friends

Last time, Minerva was on her way to Downton Abbey - disguised as Lady Violet. Back at Downton, however, the play is still a hot topic of discussion, and all is about to be hot between Isobel and the real Violet as a verbal joust is about to begin...

* * *

"And then she stormed right out of the library without even giving me a chance to say anything else."

"Classic Granny. Always has to have the last word."

As they strode the length of Downton Abbey's spacious entrance hall, Edith and her sister Mary were discussing the impending play, which proved a natural segue for Edith's recent conversation with Violet. Every word, worry, and wither was recounted, with Mary laughing at Violet's comebacks and shaking her head at every excuse. But, as the old saying went, the play was the thing – the topic of discussion between the sisters.

"The last word of the argument, or the last word about the play? I wish there were something I could say or do to make her change her mind, but she's so stubborn."

"Stubborn? That's being polite, Edith. You know as well as I that once Granny digs her heels in, not even the Royal Navy can make her budge. Who do you think I inherited my stubbornness from?"

"Stubborn? You? Now there's a novel idea."

Edith's gibe earned her an elbow in the ribs, albeit in good jest. It was common knowledge around the house that the two elder sisters had never gotten along – from childhood arguments over dolls and dress-up to nearly tearing each other's lives and loves apart with secrets and scandal – yet since the tragic death of their younger sister Sybil, Mary and Edith had been drawn together like never before. And despite the occasional barb (old habits truly did die hard), they were making good on their mutual pact to be better sisters and chums.

"Seriously, though, I'm praying for a miracle, because that's what it will take to make a thespian out of Granny."

Mary quirked an eyebrow. "In that case, you'd better pray for a twin for Granny, because that's the only way she'll ever be in the play."

At that moment, Carson entered the hall, stopping the girls in their tracks. "Ah, Lady Mary, Lady Edith. Mrs. Crawley is here, in search of Her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess."

Mary and Edith exchanged a wry look. "Is it regarding the play, Carson?" asked Mary.

Carson's thick eyebrows arced in surprise. "Yes, my lady. How did you know?"

Mary grinned. "That question would be better off posed to Edith."

"I'm afraid that Granny is not very thrilled with her role in the play, Carson," Edith explained when Carson turned to her for the details. "I expect Cousin Isobel is here to try and convince her otherwise."

Carson nodded once, which could have meant any number of things. Having served as Downton's butler for many years, he possessed an unwavering loyalty to Violet, taking her side in all matters... so his response was a bit of a shock to both Edith and Mary.

"I certainly hope she can. Mrs. Hughes and I have already informed the staff about the play, and we are all looking forward to it with great pleasure. Although I understand Her Ladyship's trepidation about playing such an unsavory character, I do believe that she would carry it off with aplomb. With her commanding presence and her fine voice, she would make a marvelous thespian."

"If only I had your way with words, Carson," Edith said, slightly ruefully. "But I doubt even you could persuade her."

"Which is precisely why I am here," came a familiar voice. All heads turned to see Isobel Crawley standing just inside the threshold, Alfred Nugent helping her off with her coat and hat. "The show must go on, as they say, but ours cannot go on without Cousin Violet. Thank you, Alfred," she said with a smile; the young footman inclined his head before taking his leave.

"Cousin Isobel," Edith greeted her with relief. "We've been expecting you."

Isobel smoothed her gown before making her way to Carson and the girls. "Thank you for telling them, Carson. And may I say, I quite agree with Cousin Edith. If you delivered that speech to the Dowager Countess, you could easily charm her into performing in the play."

Carson drew himself up with dignity, but Edith strongly suspected that he was truly flattered underneath. "I thank you, Mrs. Crawley, but I fear it is not my place to play on Her Ladyship's pride. In that area, I kindly defer to you." He then got down to business. "The Dowager Countess is in the drawing room with Lord and Lady Grantham. Shall I announce you now?"

"You!"

The sharpness of the word cracked through the hall like a whip, snapping all parties present to attention. "Somehow, I don't think that will be necessary, Carson," Mary said quietly as Violet stormed into the hall, a tempest in olivine silk. "Hurricane Violet is already here."

"Hurricane _Violent _is more like it," Edith whispered upon seeing the way her grandmother's eyes kindled as they bored into Isobel. "Granny looks angry enough to commit murder."

"Edith, be serious. Granny would never kill Isobel under Downton's roof. There are too many witnesses."

Edith gave her sister a furtive nudge as Violet came to a halt ten feet from Isobel and said, calmly yet coldly, "Cousin Isobel, _dear, _come for a walk outside with me. _Now._"

Isobel glanced from the girls to Carson, all three of whom were giving her looks that said _you're on your own. _Yet Edith knew that Isobel didn't need any help in squaring off against Violet – ever since the day they met, Isobel had refused to let her acid-tongued cousin intimidate her, which most likely explained the ongoing spite match between them. And here and now, a metaphorical bell had clanged, signaling the start of yet another round. "Of course, Cousin Violet. I'd love to hear what you have to say. You do have such a _magical _way with words."

Oh yes, the gloves were definitely off. Violet's eyes burned at the mention of the M-word and she spat, "Just follow me."

Isobel winked at the girls before following Violet outside, as though reassuring them that all would be fine. Once the door had closed behind the two women, however, Edith burst out laughing, prompting startled looks from Mary and Carson. "What is so funny?" Mary asked, while Carson's raised brows concurred with an unspoken _indeed._

"I'm sorry... I just couldn't help thinking... they looked like a pair of prizefighters preparing to knock the stuffing out of each other in the ring." Edith finally managed to control her mirth, yet her smile still remained. "Can't you see the poster for it? 'Vitriolic Violet versus Iron Jaws Isobel, one night only!'"

"Lady Edith!" Carson exclaimed, scowling first at Edith and then at Mary when she erupted in laughter too. "Really, you two! This is no laughing matter! What would His Lordship do if he knew about this?"

Mary and Edith grinned at each other before answering. "Sell tickets."


End file.
